


Covenants Between Men and Lions

by wizened_cynic



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: 50 shades of Emily Prentiss Whumpage, Barebacking, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Imprisonment, Minor Character Death, Pregnancy, Restraints, Sex, Triggers, force orgasm, forced impregnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizened_cynic/pseuds/wizened_cynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can have her when you tell me where he is." Doyle tries to make a deal with Emily: he'll give her back her daughter if she gives him back his son. WARNING: TRIGGERY AS HELL</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Over the weekend, I decided to write the darkest, most messed-up thing I could think of, and this happened. This is an AU where instead of killing her at the end of Lauren, Ian Doyle kidnaps Emily and forces her to have his child, only to take the child away from her in order to get her to tell him where Declan is. 
> 
> So let's see what warnings are applicable here: false imprisonment, forced pregnancy, kidnapping, emotional torture, Prentiss-whumping, and generally a lot of fucked up angst with minor undertones of Prentiss/Rossi.

> Grief fills the room up of my absent child,  
>  Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,  
>  Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,  
>  Remembers me of all his gracious parts,  
>  Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.  
>  Then have I reason to be fond of grief?  
>  Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,  
>  I could give better comfort than you do.
> 
> \- _King John_ , William Shakespeare

There is a man in Tennessee slaughtering seven-year-old boys and they've been interrogating him for nineteen hours when the clock strikes midnight and Emily stops in the middle of a question. If Morgan is surprised, he doesn't show it and the UNSUB doesn't notice at all. He's a pathetic, self-loathing man-child who murders young boys because he hates his mother. Aren't they all?

It's Hotch who calls Emily out of the interview room, the excuse being that Tom Emry might be intimidated into shutting down altogether if he continues to be in the presence of a female authority figure. He sends Reid in and Emily back to the hotel.

"Grab your things," he tells her, handing her a folded piece of paper. "Here's a plane ticket in your name. Flight's in an hour. You'll be home by morning."

"It's all right." She tries to sell it with a smile. "It can wait."

"No, it can't. And I can't have one of my agents distracted when we're this close to getting a confession out of this guy. Rossi will drive you."

The drive back to the Holiday Inn is silent. Emily rests her head against the window and tries to remember how to breathe. Her stomach is knotted with equal-parts dread and anticipation and her heart is pounding so hard she thinks Rossi might be able to see the outline of it through her shirt.

It starts drizzling and Rossi turns on the windshield wipers. Emily is almost lulled to sleep by their sound when Rossi suddenly says, "How old is she today?"

He already knows, but she finds herself oddly grateful to him for asking. "Three."

It's been three years since Emily Prentiss last saw her daughter.

"Three," Rossi repeats softly.

"Yeah." Emily finds herself smiling in spite of herself. "Three."

They fall into silence again. The light changes and they keep driving.

*

The first year it was just a photo.

They had the crime lab process it afterwards, and although there were three sets of prints on it (and another five on the envelope, post-marked São Paulo, Brazil), only one match came back. 

Ian Doyle.

The photo itself is slightly out of focus. A little girl in a bright blue dress that matched her eyes and light brown hair clipped to the side with a yellow ribbon. She has a fist full of birthday cake and is smiling at somebody standing next to the camera.

On the back, Ian Doyle's handwriting: _Happy 1st birthday to our darling girl._

Emily couldn't leave her bed for four days. She used to think it was an exaggeration, that somebody could be bedridden from grief, but when she saw her daughter's photo for the first time in twelve months, she knew it was true. That it is possible for grief to tear you apart completely, make you forget that you are capable to keep on living.

It was Rossi who came to her on the third day. He ladled out a bowl of his nonna's world famous chicken _brodo_ , carried it to her bedside, and stared at her until she agreed to have a couple of spoonfuls just to get him out of her house.

"If you die," he tells her, holding the spoon to her lips, "you'll never see her again. But if you get through this, I promise you, Prentiss: _we will find her_."

She finished half a bowl and surprised herself when she was able to joke about how it was a little too salty. Rossi smiled at her and didn't say anything. It wasn't until later that she realized it was the salt of her own tears that she had tasted.

*

The drizzle has turned into a downpour by the time they get back to the hotel. Emily manages to be completely soaked in the two minutes it takes to walk from the car to the door, and she is about to run up the stairs to retrieve her go-bag when the clerk at the front desk calls, "Ms. Prentiss?"

She turns around and sees him holding a manila envelope.

"Somebody dropped this off for you a little while earlier."

Emily's hands shake as she takes the envelope from him, and it's a good thing Rossi followed her in because she doesn't know if she can get back to her room on her own.

"Easy," he says, taking her by the arm. She leans against him as he walks her up the stairs. She can't feel her fingers, it's a miracle she's able to hold onto anything at all, and by the time they're inside her room and she's sitting down on the bed, her hands are gripped so tight around the envelope that Rossi has to pry it out of her fingers.

"How does that son of a bitch even know ---"

"Just open it, Rossi," Emily tells him, closing her eyes. "Please."

To herself, she repeats like a mantra: _just breathe just breathe just breathe_

*

The second year, it was a voicemail message from an unknown number that Garcia was only able to trace to a disposable cell somewhere in the Balkans.

Emily was expecting a message from AT&T advertising their new services or something when she heard a click and then a familiar voice say,

_Chantez pour Maman, ma petite._

The Irish brogue was unmistakable. It was the voice she heard in her nightmare, the one of him taking her newborn daughter away from her. (Does it count as a nightmare if it really did happen? And it is still happening, every waking moment?)

The second voice was one she had never heard before, small but crisp and clear as bells.

_Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques  
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?_

Some garbled toddler-speak that sent Emily's head reeling, and then Doyle's voice gently prompting,

_Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines_

_DING DANG DONG!_ The toddler shouted at the top of her voice and began giggling.

 _That's your favorite part, innit, love?_ Doyle asked, and was met with a delighted squeal of laughter. _Whose birthday is it today? Can you tell your da whose birthday it is today?_

_Mine!_

_That's right, darling. How old are you now?_

_Two!_

_Two! You're a big girl, aren't you?_

More giggling and then Doyle saying, _All right, it's time for your birthday cake. But first, we need to say goodbye to your mama. Say bye-bye to Mama._

_Bye-bye, Mama._

The recording ended with a second click.

*

It's a USB drive. Without even needing Garcia to confirm it, Emily knows they won't be able to find anything. The envelope itself isn't postmarked. Somebody in the States is working for Doyle, and whatever is in that USB drive must have been encrypted and encrypted so many times that nobody would ever find out where it came from.

Emily has her laptop with her, but she lets Rossi take charge. The time it takes for the driver to install is probably the longest minute of her life, but finally a window pops open, asking her if she would like to view the contents of the removable hard drive.

There's only one file. A video.

Emily braces herself against the desk as she nods for Rossi to click play. She can feel the insides of her elbows sweating, but her chest is cold and hollow, and she feels light-headed when the videoclip starts to roll.

A room, softly lit. There's a window, but it's dark and Emily can't make out anything. Not that she is looking anyway, because a few seconds later, chubby fingers appear over the lens of the camera and then there she is.

Her daughter.

In Emily's mind, she has always remained the way Emily last saw her, a tiny newborn swaddled in a yellow blanket. A mess of brown hair and eyes that were so dark they were almost colorless. Emily remembers her tiny, perfect fingers; she remembers how the baby smelled, new and raw; she remembers how light her daughter had felt in her arms, but how heavy the loss of the infant's warm, soft weight against her had been when Doyle finally snatched her away.

Now.

Now Emily can finally put a face to the voice she has listened to every day for the past year of her life. Now she can see that the baby had turned into a little girl with eyes as blue as struck matches and unruly brown hair curling up at the ends from --- the humidity, Emily thinks. Wherever they are, it must be humid and warm, even in March.

Doyle is holding the camera and Emily barely registers when he says to their daughter, "Say hi to Mama, love."

"Hi," her daughter parrots, dashing off-camera.

"Baby, come back here. Let Mama see your beautiful face, darling girl."

Breathe, Emily tells herself. Breathe.

The camera zooms out and there is Liam, sitting in a chair and taking long swigs of a beer. Moments later the girl reappears, this time peddling around the room on a bright red tricycle.

"Bloody feckin' hell," Liam is grumbling. "I damn near slice my hand off putting together that feckin' dollhouse and she don't even look at it."

"She likes her new trike better, doesn't she? Don't you, sweetheart? Just like the one your big brother used to have."

Her daughter stops peddling and gives her father a dimpled grin. "Just like Declan!"

"All those bloody screws ..."

"Shut yer trap, Liam. Darling girl, will you give that grumpy ole bastard a kiss so he'll shut his trap?"

The child steps off her tricycle and climbs into Liam's lap. She kisses her hand and places her open palm against his cheek. Even the grumpy ole bastard has a hard time concealing his smile.

"Don't it just break your heart, Doyle?" Liam asks as he lowers the girl back onto the floor. She gets back onto her trike and starts going around in circles again.

Slow down, Emily thinks. Let me see you. Please.

"That girl breaks everyone's heart."

"I mean, don't it break your heart she looks so much like her ma?"

Emily can almost the sneer on Doyle's face.

"She's got my eyes though, doesn't she? Sweetheart, come over here."

The camera tilts again and then Doyle appears, his arm around their daughter's shoulders. Emily can see her clearly now and she drinks in the image of her only child, trying to memorize every last detail. The ridge of her brow, the curve of her lip. Long, dark lashes that stand out against the blue of her eyes.

"Tell your mama how old you are today."

"I'm three!" she yells, hugging her fathers arm and rubbing her nose against it.

" _Parlez en français, mon petit bijou. Quel âge as-tu?_ "

" _J'ai trois ans._ "

"Good girl," Doyle praises, kissing her by the ear. "It's time for bed now, love. Say good night to your mama."

"Good night, Mama," her daughter repeats obediently.

"Give Mama a kiss."

As she did with Liam, the child kisses her open palm and places it against the lens of the camera.

Then, nothing.

*

She labored for hours.

The pain centered in her back and rippled outwards. She couldn't lie down, so she got onto her hands and knees like an animal and pushed until she thought she was going to rip in half and die. She was going to die and so was her baby, and something like relief swept over her when she realized it would mean she and her child would be safe from Doyle. Declan, too. They would all be safe.

"Not much longer," the midwife said, her English thick with an accent Emily couldn't quite place.

Emily heard a low, keening sound in the background and she didn't realize it was coming from herself until she felt the midwife's fingers push between her legs.

"I see the head." A slap against Emily's thigh, which she barely felt. "One more."

There was a jolt of scalding pain between her legs and then it was over. The tiny mewling sound of a newborn filled the room and Emily's entire body shuddered with relief. She turned over and fell back onto the bed, not even bothering to wait for the midwife to finish drying the baby off with a towel before she grabbed the infant from her.

"It's a girl," the midwife says, clamping the cord with a detached coldness that made Emily wonder why she chose this profession.

Or perhaps she didn't. It wouldn't be beyond Doyle to hold a gun to this woman's family and demand the safe delivery of his replacement child.

A girl.

A healthy girl, from the sound of her cries. Emily had been afraid that there would be something terribly wrong with her, or the cord would get wrapped around her neck during the birth, but her daughter's skin is a healthy pink, her eyes bright and alert, her mouth already rooting for a nipple.

"Hi," Emily said. She hurt all over and she had never been this exhausted in her life, but when she looked at her daughter, everything in her life made sense. Even the bad things made sense: the abortion in Italy, Matthew's death, meeting Doyle, betraying him, being taken eight years later and forced to have his child. All of these things, terrible as they were, were necessary to make her daughter possible.

She clutched the baby to her chest and closed her eyes. She wasn't sure what happened after that, but when she woke, the midwife was gone and the sheets had been changed. Her breasts were full but her arms were empty.

Doyle was sitting by her bed, holding their daughter.

"Good morning, Emily." His smile was predatory. "Long night?"

"Fuck you, Ian," she snarled, reaching out for the baby but he held her away.

"You should watch your language now that you're somebody's mother."

"Please," she begged. Somehow, the baby was managing to sleep through all of this. "Please. She's hungry."

"You can have her when you tell me where he is."

Declan.

This was what this had been about all along.

Emily's heart raced as the baby began whimpering. Doyle rocked her softly and hushed her. His smile was genuine; she had seen the way he looked at Declan, and he was looking at their daughter with similar affection. Somehow, instead of giving her comfort, this sent a chill up Emily's spine.

"You're hungry now, aren't you, darling girl?" Doyle cooed at their daughter.

"Please," Emily repeated, moving towards her daughter instinctively, only feel the sharp pull of the handcuffs around her wrist. Fucking bastard had chained her to the bed. "Please let me take her."

"Daddy wouldn't want you to go hungry, now, would I?"

He placed the warm bundle of blankets against her chest and unbuttoned Emily's shirt gently so that she could nurse the baby. She grit her teeth through the initial sting of latching on, but the pain eased once they both settled in, and she watched Doyle nervously as the baby started to eat. It didn't take long for her daughter to finish. He buttoned up her shirt again and took the baby out of her arms.

"I love my children, Emily," he told her. "I wouldn't ever want this little one to grow up without her mother. All I want is my son. Tell me where he is, and I'll let you keep our daughter. That's what you want, don't you? This child, your own flesh and blood. You carried her for nine months. Tell me that you don't love her already."

That was where he was wrong.

Declan was her child too, and she loved him. She had made an oath to protect him.

"My son, for your daughter."

"I can't," she sobbed out finally. _Forgive me._

Doyle looked surprised, but quickly rallied back into stoicism. His smile this time was resigned. "Well, well," he said, looking down at the baby in his arms. "Guess your mama doesn't love you after all."

"Fuck you, you son of a fucking bitch," she spat. Her lower half still ached, but she forced herself to lunge forward in an attempt to make a grab for the baby. "Give me back my daughter."

" _Our_ daughter."

Something broke then, and Emily had nothing left in her to fight back as Doyle got up and started towards the door, still holding her daughter in his arms. All she could do was scream through her tears for him to come back with her baby as the door slammed behind him and she yanked and yanked at her restraints until her wrists were bloody.

It wasn't until later, when they cleaned her wrists at the hospital, that she felt the pain for the first time.

*

Emily's no genius at computers, but she manages to transfer the video file onto her phone.

On the flight back to Washington, she sits in the back and watches it over and over again. Her team knows better than to ask her how she is holding up, wisely leaving her alone instead.

She is able to smile now at her daughter's impish grin, at the ferocity with which she pedals her tricycle, the funny lilt of her voice as she says _Mama_ , sounding almost French.

Rossi is the only other person who has seen the video. He is also the only other person on the team who has lost a child, so it is almost reassuring when he slips into the seat next to her, offering her a bottle of water.

"I'm good, thanks," Emily says, as she plays the video again. He watches as well, without saying a word, and she thinks she surprises him when she asks, "Do you think she's happy?"

Rossi doesn't answer.

"She looks happy, doesn't she?"

"She does," he says at last. "From what I can tell, she's a happy, healthy child. Emily, we'll find her. And we'll take her back to you. I will kill Ian Doyle myself if I have to."

She's safe, Emily thinks as her daughter says, _Goodnight, Mama_. Her daughter is happy and she is safe and she is loved.

For now, that is all she can ask for.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Please don't let me get pregnant._

It was a thought that hadn't crossed Emily's mind since she was fifteen. After Italy, she made damn sure that it would never happen again. She had been on birth control for so long, she almost couldn't remember a time when she didn't take that little pill every morning, between her first and second cups of coffee. Some mistakes you could only afford to make once.

Until now.

Her best guess was that it had been a month since Doyle took her from Boston, give or take a few days. Between her injuries and the harsh fluorescent lighting, it was hard for her to tell how much time had passed and it was impossible, altogether, to tell whether it was day or night outside.

But a month sounded right, she thought. It had been a month since she took her last pill and it wasn't easy to get pregnant immediately after coming off birth control. She might have read that out of perverse curiosity in a doctor's waiting room somewhere, a lifetime ago. And she knew for certain that at her age, it wasn't easy to get pregnant at all.

 _Please don't let me get pregnant,_ she prayed every single day, even as the primal part of her brain shut off as Doyle found all the right spots on her body with his tongue, his hands, the rough and calloused tips of his fingers. He knew and he remembered what she liked, how to make her buck up against him, how to put just enough pressure on her clit to make her come.

 _Please don't let me get pregnant,_ she prayed, as her body betrayed her and she came.

Always the gentleman, Doyle let her come first before he did, the hot rush of his release inside her feeling at all once so good and so repulsive.

Sometimes he held her afterwards, running his hands through her hair, kissing her neck, and she almost felt loved. Sometimes he pulled out of her without a second word and shoved a pillow underneath her legs, his cold stare reminding her what exactly he thought of her: an animal he was trying to breed.

"I want my baby, Emily," he whispered to her, sometimes when they were still tangled together, sweat and limbs and the raw, earthy smell of sex.

"Never," she'd whisper back, and the first time he slapped her.

The second time, he bit her earlobe until it bleed.

The third, he took her again, fucked two orgasms out of her and left her wordless on the bed, his semen dribbling down her thighs.

 _Please don't let me get pregnant_ , Emily thought after the first month.

She had never been so relieved to see the familiar splash of blood on her sheets when she woke up a few days later. Her cramps were more intense than usual, a grateful reminder that she was not pregnant with Ian Doyle's child. Maybe, she hoped, she would never be pregnant with anybody's child again.

Emily had expected Doyle to slap her again when he found out she was having her period, but instead, he looked almost sheepish. It was the closest thing to uncertainty she had ever seen cross his face, and she nearly laughed out loud. The moment passed and he was, once again, indecipherable.

"Don't you worry, love," he said as he cupped her face with one hand, stroking his thumb along the curve of her cheek. "We'll try again."

*

Her heart still seizes whenever her cellphone rings and UNKNOWN NUMBER flashes across its screen.

"Hello," she hesitantly answers every time, never knowing whether she wanted it to be Doyle or not. Aside from the voicemail on her daughter's second birthday, she hasn't had any contact with either of them over the phone, but a mother never loses hope. That was the first thing Elizabeth Prentiss had told her at the hospital after Doyle returned her.

Emily understands what she means and so she hopes. Keeps hoping.

Tom Koehler calls at the end of September. "Something's not right. Declan emails me everyday, but I haven't heard from him in almost a week. At first I thought it might just be him being too busy with school starting up ---" Declan's a junior this year, which makes Emily feel positively ancient --- "but I can't reach Louise either."

They arrive too late; the pretty house in the cul-de-sac where Declan Jones grew up is empty but for the housekeeper's rotting corpse on the living room parlor, bound and gagged.

"Blunt force trauma to the head and face," Rossi comments as the CSU descend on the crime scene, cameras flashing.

"It was personal," says Morgan. He glances at Emily, a flicker of concern shadowing his face. "Do you think Doyle looks good for this, Prentiss?"

Louise had been Doyle's housekeeper for over ten years, a distant cousin of a distant cousin indebted to Doyle's family. As ruthless as Doyle is when it comes to murder, he never kills without good reason, and Emily knows he would not kill the woman who helped raise his son.

Garcia goes through the surveillance tapes as Hotch and Rossi call up every single contact they can find. Reid and Morgan go over victimology and geographical profiles, and the whole time Emily tries not to let the fear swallow her. She has already lost one child and she isn't about to lose another, not that sweet boy who loves music and flowers and called her Mommy when nobody else was around.

It takes a little over 48 hours for the team to connect all the dots to the leader of an international prostitution ring, one Chloe Donaghy, wanted by every law enforcement agency and then some.

Biological mother of Declan Doyle.

By the time they track her down, she's got two bullet holes in her stomach, courtesy of her business partner Lachlan McDermott.

But she lives. And when the anesthesia wears off, she's willing to talk to Emily.

Morgan looks at them like they're all crazy for going along with it. Rossi refrains from saying anything but Reid points out, "It's our best chance of saving Declan."

Hotch watches Emily for a moment too long before giving his approval.

"She's been shot in the stomach and is hooked up to four IVs." Emily rolls her eyes. "What do you guys actually think she'll be able to do to me?"

Donaghy struggles to pull off the oxygen mask as Emily approaches. "So," she croaks out, and even on the brink of death she manages a knife-edged smile, "I heard about you."

"I'm only here to help your son."

Donaghy's laugh turns into heavy gasps for air. The machines beep wildly. "I never wanted him. It's the damn bastard who did. And if that boy can help me get to him, then it's the only good thing he's done for me. After all, I'm his mother."

Even after being in the BAU for seven years, even after all she has gone through, Emily still manages to surprise herself by the depravity of human beings. "He's _innocent_ , Chloe."

"His father isn't." Donaghy takes another long, gasping breath. "You know what it's like. Everything he did to you, he did to me."

 

*

 

Three months in, when her period didn't arrive, and Emily knew.

 _No_ , she told herself. She had been late before. It could just be stress. Being imprisoned by a psychopath who was trying to forcibly impregnate with his child would be stressful for anybody. That must be it, stress, and she hadn't been eating well, hadn't seen the light of day in months . . .

But she knew. She remembered; it was like she was fifteen again, except this time there was no one to hold her hand.

Emily tried to hide it, but it didn't escape Doyle, not when he had thoughtfully planned everything down to the bottle of pre-natal vitamins he placed next to Emily's glass of orange juice every morning, at breakfast.

One morning he arrived with the tray of buttered toast and bacon and as Emily fought the urge to vomit (yeah, there was no way to hide _that_ ), he placed an EPT kit on the table next to the vitamins.

"We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way," he told her.

He had removed the door to the bathroom, and even though he did not step inside with her, Emily felt his eyes on her the whole time. She felt more exposed than she had been when they were having sex, when he opened her up and ran his tongue through her slickness, sucking at her clit until the muscles in her legs began to shake and her hips rocked against him, against her will.

Her legs shook as she waited for the test results. _Please_ , she begged whoever still listened to her prayers. _Don't bring an innocent child into this. I deserve what I deserve, but not this._

Her prayers went unanswered as the second line appeared and Ian Doyle smiled from the bottom of his heart for the first time in eight years.

 

*

 

They trace McDermott to a private airfield in Maryland. Doyle beats them to him by a few minutes, but not enough to vanish in time with Declan, now sixteen and almost as tall as his father. Doyle has Declan's arms pinned behind his back and a gun held to his head and he is saying, "I'm not going to hurt you, son, if you just come with me.

"I can't get a clear shot," JJ murmurs.

Neither can Emily. It doesn't matter; Doyle is not going to kill his son.

It's not in the profile.

"Ian," she calls out, setting down her weapon. Her hands tremble as she places her Glock on the ground, and it takes every bit of willpower not to pick it up and shoot Ian Doyle between the eyes.

"Long time no see, Emily," Doyle replies blithely. He tightens his grip on Declan as the teenager struggles against him, pressing the gun harder against Declan's neck and Emily can see the boy wince. "I'll be sure to tell our baby girl about you when I kiss her goodnight later."

Anger flares instinctively, and she bites her lip to walk herself away from it. _Keep it together,_ she thinks. _Don't let him play you._ He spent a year with her, getting to know her demons until he learned to command them, but she is here, now, not alone but with her team, and none of them are about to let Doyle walk out of this alive, least of all her.

"Do you really think you're going to get out of here alive?" Emily asks him. She doesn't expect him to back down. It's going to be suicide by cop, it's going to be a fucking bloodbath, but she needs him to tell her where her daughter is before he gets taken out. "Do you really think you'll ever see her again?"

"I've got to try, don't I? She's waiting for me to tuck her in bed." Doyle smiles fondly. "She needs her daddy to stay with her until she falls asleep. I tell her there's nothing she has to be afraid of as long as I'm around to protect her."

"Then she'll have to learn to do without."

"She used to cry for you, you know? In the beginning, when she was so little. Cried all the time for her mama, who never came."

His words are a blow to the gut and it takes her a moment to snap out of it. In that moment, Declan manages to break free from Doyle's grasp, and as Morgan screams, _Down!_ , shots ring out and Emily hears herself screaming until the gunfire makes it impossible to hear anything besides her own pulse and the sharp, shrill sound of deafness.

Next thing she knows, she is bent over Doyle's dying body, his blood warm and sticky between her fingers as she presses on the bleeding wound, trying to keep the life in him long enough to find out where he's hiding her daughter. "Tell me where she is," Emily cries, begs even, because she's not above begging her worst enemy if it means she gets her daughter back.

"Never." Doyle closes his eyes and begins to laugh, a terrible gurgling sound that is cut short by the blood sputtering from his mouth.

It takes him four minutes and thirty-two seconds to die, and Emily counts every single last one of them. She doesn't let go of his bloodied shirt, not even when Rossi puts his hand on her shoulder and says, "Emily, Emily. He's gone," and Declan's got his arms around her waist and is sobbing into her back and all she can feel is the despair of knowing that Doyle was right: she will never see her daughter again.

*

She was nine, maybe ten weeks pregnant when Doyle came in one day with a surprise for her.

"Handcuffs don't really count as a surprise when you've been keeping me prisoner for six months," she deadpanned. "You're slipping in your old age, Ian."

"The handcuffs are just to protect you, sweetheart," he said and Emily tried not to flinch as he put them on her. Since becoming pregnant, every inch of her skin had become oversensitized, craving touch.

It wasn't until he slipped the blindfold over her eyes that she began to panic.

"You have to trust me, Emily."

"I'm two months pregnant, in handcuffs, and you've got a gun to my back. I don't think I'm the one having trust issues here."

Doyle chuckled good-naturedly. "I've always loved that pretty mouth of yours."

He walked her down a long, dank hallway and then outside --- she felt the crisp cut of cold air against her face and the scent of pine was unmistakable---- and then into a moving vehicle.

"Drive," Doyle ordered whoever was behind the wheel.

Pregnancy had left her exhausted and she dozed off within minutes. Before she lost consciousness, she could feel a blanket being tucked around her, and for a minute she was almost able to forget where she was. She flitted in and out of sleep until the car stopped and she heard Doyle whisper, "Welcome to your new home, my love."

The gun wasn't necessary --- even she knew she didn't have enough energy to fight him if she tried --- but he kept his hand on the small of her back as he led her through doors and down corridors, turning corners and walking up flights of stairs until she lost track of how to find her way back. Finally, she heard the click of a lock behind her and then Doyle was taking off her blindfold.

It was the first time she had seen daylight in six months.

The room was spacious, comfortably decorated, but even without going closer, Emily knew that the windows were nailed shut and the door was dead-bolted from the outside. There was a four poster bed, with pale blue linen and a duvet folded perfectly at its foot. A desk, a bookshelf, an adjourning bathroom --- no TV, no computer, nothing that could be used to contact the outside world, of course --- and what Emily loved most: two large, dormer windows that overlooked the woods outside.

"I thought you could use more comfortable accommodations, given your delicate condition."

He uncuffed her and she drifted her way to the windows. Looking down, she realized that whatever house they were in was situated directly over a cliff, and it would be a forty, fifty feet fall even if Emily managed to break the glass open.

"You seem awfully confident that I'm just going to stay put," she said, turning back to face Doyle.

He shrugged. "You could try to escape if you want. I'm not stopping you."

"I could jump out the window, break my neck." Slit my wrists, Emily thought. Rip those pretty blue sheets off the bed and hang herself with them.

"But you wouldn't do that to your baby, would you?"

She said nothing, to which he smiled.

"I always knew you would be a good mother."

 

*

 

Emily has a couple of cuts and bruises, nothing that can't be fixed with a couple of Band-Aids and Neosporin, but Hotch insists on having her checked over at the hospital. She's still numb from watching Ian Doyle die (four minutes and thirty-two seconds) and it isn't until she is washing his blood off her hands in the handicapped restroom that she finally loses it.

Through the mess of snot and tears, she hears Rossi knock on the door twice before he bursts in calling her name. "Emily, Emily," he chants, putting his arms around her and literally lifting her back up onto her feet.

She slumps against him, still sobbing. "You said we'd find her, Rossi."

"We'll find her, Emily, I swear to god."

"How? The only person who knows where she is is dead."

"Emily, I need you to listen to me, all right? Breathe deep." He takes in a deep breath and Emily finds herself following suit. A few more breaths and she can feel her legs again. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and is appalled by the sight of herself. _Priam_ , she thinks. He went to the Greeks to ask for the return of his dead son.

Rossi is still holding onto her. "We've got a lead."

Emily reels back from him, incredulous. "Don't fuck with me, Rossi."

"Prentiss, listen to me. We've got a lead from Declan and Reid and Morgan are on it right now."

The lead is a child's drawing on the back of a take-out menu for Pete's Pizza Parlor. "He gave it to me," Declan says, passing it over to Emily. "He said my sister drew a picture of me, she was so excited to finally meet me."

Emily's head throbs as she studies the picture, which is almost indiscernible. She can make out a sun drawn in orange crayon (a lopsided circle with rays sticking straight out), two big stick figures, and a littler one wearing a pink triangle of a dress, sitting on what could be a swing. The clouds are colored in blue like Emily used to do as a kid, because it didn't make sense to wear your blue crayon to a stub over something as mundane as the sky.

Hotch is holding out a cup of coffee, which she doesn't accept. She can't take her hands off the sheet of paper, and if any of the forensics guys try to take it away from her to dust for prints, she might have to shoot them. "Garcia's running a search on all the pizza places with the same name within a fifty-mile radius ," he says.

"It's a long shot," she says.

Pete's Pizza Parlor. She imagines dozens of them popping up along the east coast, like houses in a game of Monopoly.

"It's our best shot," Hotch says.

Garcia comes back with a couple of locations, but it is Reid who narrows down the grid. "Take a look at this, guys," he says, pulling up a homicide investigation report from Gloucester County Police Department. "Four days ago, Julianna Tate filed a missing persons report on her parents, Susan and Doug, a retired couple living on their farm right at the edge of town. When the sheriff went to check it out, they found the two of them dead, shot point-blank, execution-style."

"What's the connection?" Morgan asks.

"Garcia, can you zoom in on the satellite picture of the house."

"Your wish is my command."

"In the police report, it says that it was obvious that the home had been lived in. There were dishes in the sink, milk in the fridge, and --- here's where it gets interesting --- there were toys strewn all over the living room. Now get this: the toys belong to the Tates' grandchildren, who visit once every three weeks or so, but the kids have been at home with the chicken pox all week and haven't been to see their grandparents." Without taking a breath, Reid carries on, "Thanks, Garcia. See here?"

"It's a swing set," JJ says.

"I think Doyle chose that house for his daughter."

My daughter, Emily thought.

"Awwww," Garcia croons. "That would be sweet if it weren't so creepy."

"That house falls right in the middle of the grid. I'm guessing Doyle didn't expect to have to stay so long. He didn't count on McDermott and Donaghy getting to Declan before he did. By the time he caught onto them, the Tates were reported missing and he had to run.

"But Doyle would stay somewhere nearby so that he could take his son back, and he would need to find another house fitting all the same requirements: relatively secluded, not a lot of visitors, but with obvious signs that a child lives or has lived there."

Emily tries to process the thought of Doyle murdering another family so that her daughter could play with toys belonging to their dead children. How is Emily ever going to explain to her, if they do find her, how much her father loved her?

Hotch interrupts her thoughts with an order. "All right. Start going through missing persons reports and see if any of them fit the profile."

It feels like an eternity before Reid shouts out, "Here it is! I got it! Lesley Carlson, 68. She used to run a daycare center out of her home but retired last summer. Her neighbor said no one was answering the door but when the police showed up, Lesley came out and said she was busy babysitting her nephew's kids. Police report says there was the sound of a child playing in the background. Police left, nobody heard a peep from that house since."

"Let's go," Rossi says, tossing Morgan the keys. "You drive."

Morgan drives like a drunk maniac on steroids but Emily barely notices. She sits in the back, next to Rossi, who stares at her as if she might crumble any minute, which is not far from the truth.

"You think you're up to this?"

"Rossi, she's my _daughter_. I've been waiting this for three and a half years. I just . . . " She looks out the window for a moment, trying to focus as the highway whirled past them. "I don't want to scare her. She's probably wondering where her dad is already and if we go storming in, I don't know what that will do to her."

Rossi rests his hand on her knee. "Hey," he says gently, "remember when I said we would find her? Look at us now, on our way. I'm a man of my word and I'm telling you now, Prentiss, I'll do everything within my power to make sure your little girl makes it out of that house safe and sound. Nothing that will give her fodder for therapy later on."

Emily snorts. "A little late for that, don't you think? Her father's an international terrorist and her mother only gave birth to her because he wanted leverage over her."

"Her mother loves her. That's all she needs to know."

Morgan manages to get them to Lesley Carlson's house without killing any of them in the process, which is a miracle in itself. They close in on the house, guns loaded and drawn. "You promised," Emily hisses to Rossi as one of the SWAT agents silently jimmies the front door open.

There are two of Doyle's men in the sitting room. They go down quietly, swift bullets to the head from a High Standard HDM. Reid and JJ check for their pulse as Hotch nods towards the hallway, and Rossi goes ahead, followed by Emily.

 _Be here,_ Emily pleads silently as she follows Rossi, down to the end of the hall where they can the soft sounds of somebody breathing. _Be here and be safe. Let me find you._

"One female accounted for," Hotch's voice comes through her earpiece. "She's young, unarmed, doesn't speak English. We think she's the nanny."

"Lesley Carlson's gone," says Reid. "Doyle must have killed her before he went to stop McDermott."

They are about to go in, when the door creaks open and Rossi lifts his gun.

"No," Emily says, lowering her own. "Don't. Please."

A tiny shadow appears, a slight wisp of a girl with hair tousled from sleep and wearing too-large pajamas with stars and moons printed all over. She rubs her eyes sleepily and when she finally speaks, her voice is one that Emily has committed to memory. "Daddy?"

Emily stands, frozen.

Unable to speak or move, unable to breathe even, because she's dead, she must be dead, this can't be happening, this only happens in her dreams when she dares to go to sleep.

"Hey there," Rossi says, re-holstering his gun. "Everything's all right, honey. Everything's just fine."

"We got her," he mutters into his wire before he bends down to pick up the little girl. Emily is still staring, trying to reconcile the fact that her daughter is in front of her, healthy and whole, albeit frightened out of her mind now that she is awake enough to realize she is being surrounded by strangers.

Still in Rossi's arms, the child stares at Emily, studying her with familiar blue eyes.

Maybe, Emily hopes, maybe she remembers me.

Somehow she manages to find enough in her to speak. Her words come out stilted, but sure. "Hi, sweetie. What's your name? Can you tell me your name?"

Her daughter gazes her down for another moment before removing the thumb from her mouth.

"Lauren."


End file.
